Does the Doctor Think I'm A Freak?

By Paint Her in Color Founder, Laura Spiegel

Have you ever wondered what your doctor thinks of you? Does she silently judge you while you’re spread-eagled at your annual OB-GYN appointment? Does he secretly think you’re a candidate for weight loss surgery or perhaps a lobotomy? Can she see through your fib about twice weekly alcohol consumption and note to casually bring up substance abuse?

It’s funny how a profession that’s designed to help us be our best can also trigger the oddest of insecurities.

I’m sometimes convinced my daughter’s pulmonologist thinks I’m a freak. Like, a bona fide, she’s-definitely-crazy-but-manages-to-conduct-herself-in-a-semi-professional-manner-so-I’ll-look-past-it, freak.

A casual observer at my daughter’s quarterly cystic fibrosis check-ups at the hospital would see this: We park in the parking garage, take the elevator down to the clinic, check in, wait for an exam room to open up, get a quick height and weight, answer some questions, have a listen to her lungs, do a quick throat swab, hit up the labs, and peace out.

Meanwhile, an observer of my inner monologue would hear this:

Please don’t let there be anyone else waiting for the elevator.

Dammit, there’s another family. Walk slowly. Don’t make eye contact.

Crap, they’re being polite and holding the elevator for you. Refuse them politely. Wait for next elevator to arrive and pray there is no one already inside.

Ugh, there’s a dude in there. We’re almost late, so we’d better take it. God knows when the next one will come.

Brief smile. “Hey.”

Please, please, please don’t let him be a cougher. I hope he’s not sick. I hope he’s not one day into the flu and just asymptomatic and doesn’t realize it yet.

Is it weird if I press the elevator button with my elbow? How often do they clean those things, anyway? Probably never.

Phew. We made it.

Quick, grab a protective mask before we have to walk by anyone else. It’s cold and flu season, and we are not taking any chances.

I wonder how many people have touched this mask before me. They should come individually wrapped in plastic.

I wonder if those exist. Seriously, I could make millions. No one wants fellow hospital goers man-handling their mask. Lord knows what else they’ve been touching before.

“Please stop touching the walls, honey. You don’t need to drag your hand across every surface in this hospital. It’s dirty.”

Please don’t let there be another kiddo with CF in the waiting room. [People with CF need to stay at least six feet apart to prevent cross-contamination of each other’s lungs].

“Honey, stay back there by the elevator door. Nope. Further back. Kind of try to press yourself into the wall like you’re invisible.”

What are the odds she’ll stay there until we’re called back to clinic?

“Oh, hi! Yes, we’re ready. Let’s go do some vitals!”

I wonder how often they clean that scale.

“No, hon. You don’t need to take your socks off too.”

Hospital floors are hell-holes of bacteria.

“Honey, get off the floor. Stop touching everything.”

Did she just lick her shoe? I can’t even…

“What’s that? Oh, sure, we can answer some questions.”

Bring on the inquisition. If I had a dollar for every time I was asked about my daughter’s stool, I’d be one rich mama…

“Oh, her stool? It’s long, brown, and it sinks.”

Is she going to wash her hands after touching that keyboard?

Remember that one lady who told you they never clean the keyboards? Oh, wait. She works at a different hospital.

What am I so worried about? This hospital is one of the best in the country. They know what they’re doing. Chillax.

Oh, good. The doctor’s here.

“Hi, Doctor! Yes, we are doing great. I have some questions.”

Why is she looking at me funny? It’s obviously because my questions are over the top. No wait. It’s because my questions are in a PowerPoint.

I think she’s uber-impressed by my Paint Her in Color Health Template! I wonder if she’ll ask for a copy to show the others?

“Honey, I’m talking to the doctor right now. I can’t play with you. Just do some more stickers.” [Attempt to take notes while stickers are stuck to my face one by one…]

“Oh, her stool? It’s long, brown, and it sinks.”

“Sweet pea, I can’t talk with stickers over my mouth. This isn’t working.”

“Do you want to watch Jaws on my phone?”

Was that even age appropriate? What are other six-year-olds watching these days?

And she’s on the floor again… Where’s the hand sanitizer?

What are the odds of catching the 0.01% of germs that aren’t covered by the “kills 99.9% of germs on contact” claim? If it’s even 99.9%. I wouldn’t put it past the hand sanitizer industry to be shifty...

Ah, hell. I forgot about the throat swab.

I wonder if this will be a fast one or if it will take two people and an act of God to get my daughter to sit still.

The MA just put on fresh gloves. Should I ask her to slap on some hand sanny, too? 0.01% aside, you can never be too cautious.

Wait. Did that swabbing stick accidentally touch the paper on the exam table? I swear it’s possible that it maybe did.

Smile and be polite about it. They know you’re just advocating for your child.

“Can we get a new stick just in case? And maybe a dose of hand sanitizer?”

“What’s that? Oh. It’s long, brown, and it sinks.”

Maybe I should bring up my wet bar idea again.

She knows that’s tongue in cheek, right? She doesn’t actually think I’m suggesting that a wet bar be placed in the hospital lobby, does she?

Although it could do wonders for Patient Satisfaction scores. If I could carry a glass of Malbec with me, I’d be much better to work with.

Nope, she’s clearly flagging me for substance abuse. I shouldn’t have made that joke again. No one seems to get it.

Seriously? Labs today? Is it already that time of year?

“Oh, just ten vials of blood? That’s all? No problemo.”

I can predict how this is going to go. Tears. Hives. The works.

“Okay, honey. They need to take some blood. We’ll go to the toy store after. We’ll get ice cream. I’ll send you to Space Camp. I’ll find a real unicorn to live in your bedroom…”

I’m losing my mind here.

Where is the Malbec?

“Wait, can you wash your hands again?”

I’d love to say that much of this is exaggeration, but it’s mostly pretty accurate. The person I am at the hospital is not the person I am at home. I’m like a juiced up Mama Bear on overdrive. The adrenaline pumps, and I feel a need to protect my daughter from looming danger at every turn.

Which is crazy because the entire point of a children’s hospital is to help people, right?

But I don’t think I’m alone. I’ve talked with tons of other parents whose nerves fire on overdrive the second they walk through a hospital’s double doors. This is a place where the stakes are high. Somewhere within those walls, someone is having either the best or worst day of her life. There is little in between, and there is no margin for error when it’s your child. Your world.

I usually try to impart some element of meaning in my blogs. This one is a bit more simplistic than others. You’re not alone. You’re a good mom. If you’re like me, maybe you need to practice some deep breathing on the drive down to the hospital. But also cut yourself some slack. Stress invokes a fight or flight response in all of us, and we are nothing if not fighters.

Now about that Malbec…